Double Shot
by Wolfpack pride
Summary: "He'd always had a knack for knowing when it was time to take someone's keys, when it was time to cut 'em off, and when to pour them a double."


Double shot.

This can take place anywhere from season 2-season 7 but most likely mid season 7. No spoilers.

A/N: It's been a long time since I've posted anything so I figured it was time. I do not own Supernatural, however, Jerry is all mine. He made his first appearance in an E/O drabble challenge entry of mine and I thought I'd expand a bit. Here ya go.

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It was one of those nights in the bar. The kind where the college kids are for once sticking to their studying and the normal drunks are taking the night off of the bottle and the bar is quiet. There were a few people nestled in the corner booths unwinding after a long week, a few more at the counter, and a lively game of pool between Joe, a respectable carpenter in town and Gina, the kindergarten teacher at the elementary school in town, had been abandoned in favor of other pursuits. About time they stopped beating around the bush, Jerry thought as he wiped down the counter of his little pub. He'd been at this gig for going on 9 years and he knew that everyone had a story and a kind ear would go a lot further than a bottle of Jack. He'd won a good reputation for his bar in that small town over the years. He'd always had a knack for knowing when it was time to take someone's keys, when it was time to cut 'em off, and when to pour them a double.

So when a weary Dean Winchester made his way down to his neck of the woods, Jerry had no qualms about giving the gruff looking man exactly what he asked for, two tumblers of whiskey in quick succession and a third to take his time with.

He had bags under his eyes and looked like he hadn't slept in days…that or had been recently hit by a truck. Judging by the scars covering every inch of visible skin and the haunted look in the man's eyes, Jerry didn't feel comfortable ruling out the later option. Everything about the way he held himself screamed guilt drinker, from the tense line of his shoulders and the way he made no unnecessary movements. Jerry had seen more than his fair share and it was still hard for him to see. He'd rather take a hundred blubbering frat boys over a man holding back so much pain.

Jerry was silently thankful that his new waitress had taken the night off, knowing that she was not one to shy away from hitting on the patrons to get a tip and hadn't yet learned the difference between the guys who wanted nothing more than a shot of tequila and a pretty girl to smile at them and those that needed breathing room and a drink to kill the pain.

Dean took his place on the worn bar stool, perfectly content to sit and wallow in unnecessary self-pity for a few hours. Nearly everyone he'd ever cared about was gone...dead. Who was left to judge him for swan diving off the wagon once again. He swirled the amber liquid around the glass a few times before tipping it back. He relished the burn of it as it slipped down his throat. For someone as used to pain and injuries as he was, there were few things that could compare to the satisfying kick of whiskey to put everything else out of his weary mind. Before he could even lift his head to motion for another, the barkeep had already placed it in front of him. They made eye contact for a brief moment and Dean was surprised to find no incrimination there. Most bars he went to, he had to deal with the concerned stares and wary glances shot his way; but not here.

Jerry had expected the haunted look, he'd expected the pain, and maybe even some unshed tears; that he could handle. What caught the experienced barkeep off guard was the dull look of resignation. No hope, no ambition, just sorrow and the hardness of knowing that no matter how much he drank, that ache would never go away. His heart ached for the man, despite knowing practically nothing about him but he knew the type. So instead of a kind word or pat on the back, Jerry just kept the bottle close in hand, ready to pour another.

At some point in the night though, the glass stopped getting emptied. Jerry glanced over every couple minutes waiting for the appropriate time to top him off and it never came. The man had just taken to staring into the liquid rather than actually drinking it. He'd swirl it around and watch it settle, take a deep breath and repeat the motion. It seemed more of a habit than anything else. If the man hadn't looked so intent on observing the simple motion, Jerry may have assumed that he wasn't even aware he was doing it.

With one last swirl and a sigh, he downed the amber liquid and stood up. He threw some bills on the counter and glanced up only to find the barkeep staring back at him. Jerry just gave him a small, somber nod before returning once again to his other patrons.

x…..x

Dean made his way out of the bar and walked back to the motel a few blocks away, the cold air helping clear his head a bit. He knew that as soon as he walked through the door, Sam would give him that look he hated so much, the look that said, "I know where you've been and I'm disappointed." Dean didn't much care at this point that Sam was disappointed in him. Sam associated drinking with their lackluster father and whenever Dean had a tumbler in his hand, all he could see was him walking down the same path John got lost on.

But there was a difference between John and Dean.

Yeah, Dean would have a couple drinks. He'd try to forget about all the horrors he'd seen for a little while, but he always came back.

No matter what…he always came back.

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading, please review. God Bless.


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